REPRISTINATION

As another morning

Tiptoes through darkness

Serenely sighing, and

Stretching sleepy limbs

To birdsong,

Love sheds all resentments,

Coiling content beneath

A pool of cool comfort,

Rippled with sleep and

Delirium.

And how many regrets would

You twine round your ankles?

The best measure of life is

Found in its moments

Of madness.

HAIR

Twirling, black, wet

Decapitated vanity

Scattered on the floor

Did you look away, as we made love that night?

Did we make love that night?

Did we ever make love?

Because I hungered for that

Which I never deserved,

Because I hunger for that

Which I cannot have,

Each night, a zombie with haunted hair

Traverses a mobius strip of nostalgia

Someday I’ll kill the beast

And bathe these tresses in its blood

Twirling, red, wet

JULIO

No poem was good enough for Julio, so here is a love story. It lasted not more than a week, but what seems like a lifetime. That is the magic of love, I suppose: it allows you to live several lifetimes in one.

It was a severely cold January when I met him first: the third day of the new year. A handful of students, who had stayed back on campus during the vacation, flocked at the market, probably trying to hold on to the elusive festive spirit the way I was. The queue at the golgappa stall meant I had to wait. There he was, sitting still like a stone, not trying to avoid but ignore the trampling of the crowd engrossed with their savoury delights: a wet, cold and terrified ball of fur.

Why doesn’t anyone bother to move him away from there? I realized I could just as well be that anyone. Picking him up was no trouble, but putting him down proved to be a challenge; he would meow his way back into my arms, and soon enough, into my heart. There was no way the authorities would allow scholars to keep pets at the hostel, but it took me not more than ten minutes to decide on gifting the poor dear a home. How strange is it for someone who never identified as a cat-person for thirty-two years? I suppose it does not matter, for I did no adopt a sick, shivering, frightened little kitten that day; he adopted me.

What does one name a white-and-brown kitten, with whiskers only on his right side? ‘PoMo’ was an instant hit with my friends and associates (yes, you are allowed to snigger at the myopic vision of the architecture academia), while ‘Baburam’ came to me naturally. For a while, I also contemplated on names with an initial R, thinking of christening my new-found love in memory of the love lost. In the end, I decided it was all unfit, as it had to be about him and not about me. Julio, a sad pun on hulo,was an epiphany, possibly somewhat catalyzed by Paul Simon’s music.

***

Two days after we met, returning from my morning class, I found myself in my room with no trace of Julio; not even a suspended Cheshire smile. The only way out of the locked room could have been my second floor balcony, but all I could see form there was a completely different cat sun-bathing on an assortment of rubbish piled below. I do not remember what it felt like (or I am too embarrassed to admit it), but I reached out for a pack ominously imprinted with ‘smoking kills’, and in spite of having no hope, slowly trudged down the stairs to inspect the site of the possible accident. The gentleman was sitting there all huddled up and frightened just the way I had found him not too long back; thanks to his patchy coat, I had been unable to make out his divine presence from the upper floor. How is it that I felt lighter on my way back, even though I was carrying him then?

Julio seemed to have learnt his lesson: after that day, he didn’t venture too far off the room unless I was in visible proximity. I started to leave the doors ajar, and even if he bolted out with his natural sense of responsibility to enquire the cause of strange sounds and smells, I knew it would not take him farther than the stair-landing, and he would scamper back the moment I went up to him and walked him back to the room.

I collected several pieces of common knowledge: tom-cats do not make the best of pets, and do not recognize anything beyond momentary self-interest. I kept preparing myself for the day he was old enough to run away and fend for himself, and regularly mentioned the immediate possibility of such an occurrence in my casual conversations with friends, possibly trying to convince myself I was comfortable with the idea. However, I wished for it to be a distant reality, and, may be subconsciously, hoped for it to never happen.

***

A kitten made a father out of a silly love-lorn bachelor, and almost mended his erratic, whimsical lifestyle. There is no way you can stay up all night, aimlessly surfing the internet, if your bundle of joy creeps up on your lap, and demands to be caressed to sleep. A few times I had tried quietly lifting him off my chest, and putting him down on the blanket, thinking he was fast asleep, but he would just open those drowsy eyes, and without much ado, crawl back onto me. He made me choose between an exciting flux of virtual socializing and a singular but living, breathing, meowing love; reality won.

Gone with the nights of insomnia, were the days of waking up at noon and lunch for breakfast. He would be up early, but strangely, never made me get up until I was ready to; though, with my first foot down on the floor, his reprimanding ensued. I could never be quick enough to stir up his platter of morning milk without feeling guilty of making him wait for it too long… far too long; Julio sure knew how to sound plaintive. His thirst quenched, he would make an amusing display of the proverbial feline curiosity: running after bits of paper, fallen leaves and bugs, pulling at shoe-strings, pajama draw-strings and belt straps, hunting slippers and shampoo bottles, inspecting laptop keyboards, and exploring the dark worlds hidden behind doors, suitcases and cupboard shutters. It did not go on for long though, for my kitten was even more capricious than me. My attempts at starting the day’s work had to be punctuated to personally entertain him with kill-the-ball combat trainings, come-bite-my-finger drills, and okay-I-shall-brush-you-to-make-you-purr routines.

All of a sudden, I was left with no time to even consider how laid-back and easy-going my life was a week ago. I had to keep running to and from the shops, buying pail, jar, fish and milk to arrange for his meals, bucket, mops and disinfectants to clean his shit, a ball to keep him entertained, a pair of slippers to replace the ones he had ripped apart, and of course the injections I had to take because he had scratched, and made me bleed. Add to that the hurried bicycle rides back to the hostel room, flung between classes and café-symposiums, to replenish his pail, clean up after him, and check if he is lonely. Surprisingly, now that I had to be busy for him, I suddenly found all the time I needed to complete the work I had piled up over months, thanks to my erstwhile, incurable procrastination. Winter too was kind; the chill gave way to days of sunshine and I was full of energy. A friend rightly remarked: was I a blessing for him, or was he one for me? Life works in strange ways; one of the strangest of them is love.

My friends also supplied a continuous string of complaints: I was smothering him, bothering him, restraining his freedom, and making him incapable of fending for himself. Sometimes I wondered if I had done worse with my lost love, and backed away, but never for more than a few hours. Julio accepted my continual attentions with only occasional and feeble objections. He would meow now and then when I cycled with him haltered in a scarf, and protest by pushing off my hands when I cleaned his ears with cotton-buds or pick out fleas. Other than the bathing, which happened just once, there was nothing that he wouldn’t agree to, once I managed to catch him by the collar.

***

It had been an exhausting day at the university, and gulping down my black coffee I rushed back home to see my feline son. Taking him up in my arms gave me the usual sense of eternal bliss. Julio had had an extra pail of milk with his fish lunch, but I decided to give him another extra pre-dinner serving; he did seem hungry. Leaving behind half of the warm milk, Julio suddenly bolted out of the door. I went after him after a while, and was alarmed to see him not on the corridor anymore. But a flight of steps down, he was loitering around: I would like to believe, waiting for me to join him. Each time I went to collect him, he went down another flight. Finally, I quit following him and just let him go on. I was simultaneously annoyed at his new-found audacity, expecting and hoping he would return looking for me any minute, scared of being all alone and away from his father, reasoning and defending his action against my own emotions (after all, my room was too small to keep him entertained), questioning the adequacy of his diet, and disoriented by the idea of spending the night alone, with Julio somewhere out there being preyed on by the many tom-cat thugs.

I went out for a cup of coffee and promised myself I shall not look for him… after all he is sure to come back at night looking for the warm milk, the warm blanket, and the warmth of my caress. A pragmatic and rather mean alter ego reminded me that it was equally likely that I may never see him.  On my way back, convincing myself I am not looking for him, I went down to the courtyard while trying to figure out an alternative reason for going there. Julio was amongst the other cats, and did not run away when I caught him by the collar; I was relieved to take him up in my arms.

As I walked back up the stairs, I realized he didn’t really like it. Even if I was doing what I thought was best for him, who was I to decide that anyway? Wasn’t I just being selfish in love? As he struggled to get off, I gently put him down on the steps and watched him run away, without a valedictory meow.

At night I went around looking for him one last time, but all the cats of the world seemed to have gone to their hidden world. I console myself: Julio must have found his place amongst his kind. Winter has suddenly decided to come back with all severity, and I just hope he finds a warm spot for himself.

***

I expect to spot him sometime amongst the other cats down at the courtyard, surreptitiously waiting below the concrete benches, and running after morsels of food carelessly dropped by the university scholars. At night, I keep my door unbolted and a platter of warm milk ready.

In the end, like all love, it is about learning to let go.

PLUNGE SINK DROWN

Singed breath and twitching limbs in

Liquid sleep gushing onto ‘morrow

With blended dreams of rage and longing

A cloudy morn in its ebb

A tortured night in its tide

What would it take to get over that smile?

STRANGE

Why conduct a cacophony
Of my unrequited longing?
O! Not all love need be declared
Some sorrows may suffer smiling
And so I'm strange, as a stranger
Should be. Strange, thy name is me.

Sometimes I think: do you think of me sometimes?

INSOMNIA 4

A metronomic ceiling fan measures my hearbeats: a deja vu of separation.

I remember your brow against my breast; do you remember my stifled sobs from the next bedroom?

Now the night alone thinks of me tenderly.

PROPHYLACTIC

The dear doctor decided
I should be cured, forever
Neither pain, nor anguish
No more tears

Now, I look at you smiling
From the LCD screen, and
In vain, search for sorrows
Familiar

Only a faint memory
Of a tortured existence
Murmurs from across keyholes

May be the dear doctor meant
I would be fine, forever
As the pills give love parole

BLUEBERRY NIGHTS

I am here now,
And you are over there,
But our time
(It was good) is gone.

Time
Never leaves us the same,
And if I step across that door,
Friends would meet as strangers

I'll never step across
That door
Being scared?
Or obstinate.

Life was good
Life still is
Life shall be
As always.

I await my blueberry nights.
Wish me luck;
I think I know you would
Love.

Deepavali

People laughing close by
Laughing, talking, shouting, screaming
Bursting crackers too
Merry people close by

I disapprove
Why must you disturb my slumber?
The somnambulist that I am
Walking through life in a daze

All you people close by
Go elsewhere;
You must have better things to do
Than heighten my sense of alienation

It is official now: I hate festivities.

When did I last tell you that I miss you?
Or did I ever?

WHERE WOULD YOU FIND ME?

When I run away, away
Through the midnight streets
Of a steel city, guarded by

Halogen eyes of Praxair towers
And dark silhouettes of giant
Mechanical sentinels,

Along boulevards of conspiring
Peltophorums in a wintry dawn,
Sighing lemon yellow flowers,

Along accidental highways
With coke-shops and temples
Haunted by the ghosts of melancholy

Evening bells and passing orgies,
Along derelict downtown markets
When all the cars have gone

Home, and three stray dogs
Bark around the ice-cream parlour
While bulls and bullshit litter the desolation,

And through jogging tracks
Of history and alacrity.
When I run away...

*

An invisible fish subsides,
Inscribing silver ripples
on the wasted waters of the Jayanti

March moon-lotus drifts along the Kharkai
A speckled lizard scampers from 1/4
to C8, leaving a trail of click-ticks

Confirming some unutterable misfortune
An inflamed Sakchi sky
Pitted olives ham and peach

Linger in neglect, on bygone
Tuesday evening shelves.
Life is a long due bike ride.

*

Cheap motel toilets
With white lights and
Green linoleum floors

Tea-stained blanket-sheets
Sighing ceiling fan
A notebook of Poems and

A pack of cigarettes. Each night
Death lights the Zippo
In return for fellatio.

*

Maybe I don't remember
Your touch, distinct from
The lovers and pimps,

But I do.
Maybe I should claim
It does not matter,

But it does.
My skin misses you as much
As this thumping pumping organ

Now diving down to
My navel and loins in an
Oppressing Dakshinayan.

Two years of love and
One year of penance.
Now you shall find me

With white hair,
White breath, and
A white pyre at Manikarnika.

Devipaksha

Old friends inspire old memories
Vintage heartaches seem like day-old wounds
Yesterday I thought of love, despair
And today, of the dead, between hours
Of sleep, prolonged.
The living are corrupted by the
Present.
Only the dead speak to me of days
Of innocence.
A living beyond life, and loving
Beyond love.

A FAMILY MAN

As I witnessed the match-making bear fruit, I distracted myself with a fling with a masochistic poet. It made my room-mate jealous and sad. Arousing such despair, the fling could not last. I survived the wedding-planning days by howling through the interminable nights, and making tea in the mornings after. Finally I escaped, in time for the engagement ceremonies. The days of the wedding I spent in an ancient city by the river: a place we should have been visiting together, as per my naive daydreams.

Back in the metropolis I started seeing other people. Nothing did compare to those two years of happiness; it was an unfair burden. I immersed myself in the old University. A year went by. When the madness and heartaches of new loves subsided, a longing, a despair for my days as a family man kept coming back. What had started with the summer heat and bottled cures for hair-fall, ended in everlasting sorrow.

END NOTE

Picking up the residual shards
Of a failed attempt at life,
I struggle to move on,
Too often convinced
It is best to give up,
Let go.

For how much longer?

Mother-Father;
You who brought me into being,
And loved me till time's end,
Towards you my duties
remain shamefully unfulfilled.

My sisters, my blood;
If I leave you with a heavy heart,
Know a heart was too tired to carry on.

My friends, and little ones;
Grieve me not:
There shall be other things in other places
For charming momentary amusements.

And my unborn son;
Like you, my love shall remain,
Endlessly scattered in the smiles
Of the world's innocent children.

ANNIVERSARY

I think, believe, hope

I cured myself of you

Once more.

Finally.

At last.
There: I turn a smile at life,

And the tendrils of longing and despair

Twirl round my guts, unawares.

Once more

Sorrow sprouts like a cancer.

Let me scatter into a million minuscule fragments.

Without shame, or reproach,

And without permission,

I shall dust your shoulders,

Kiss your brow,

And find everlasting sleep,

As I disappear into your breath

Finally.

SMALL TALK

Though you complain of my reticence,
I shall rather not discuss my life,
Which revolves around your memories
In ways that you would not approve.

Let there be talk of ailments and ill-weather
Sandwiched between hellos and goodbyes.
At least, there shall be no need
To resort to a subterfuge of silence.

Remembering the ninth year of the millennium

My mornings’ glory, my evenings’ nest,

You were my mooring in life’s unrest.

(But let us agree it was not love, if that is what makes you feel good: we never even had a song for us.)

Now all that I have must seem enough

For nothing more can be had.

On a stained pink bed-cloth lies tarnished,

Freezing, frozen Silver.

DELUGE

It continues to rain here, 

And all is soggy,

Clammy,

Muggy.

A damp delirium

Punctuated with Wittgensteinian yawns.

In centuries like these

My petite ponderings seek refuge

In damp margins

Of university notebooks

Shoved under dorm pillows.

WANDERING 'WONDERINGS'

If ever a morning, lost, finds its way

From the gutters of my dreams,

Through the wasted gargoyles

Of your downtown church,

To your quizzical frown,

Would you wish it well?

Would you take him home?

Dear R

I was naïve, thinking

Someday I shall accomplish

Loving you no more.

Is it foolish to

Love, when one is aware of

no hope, no hope, none?

Yes, I am a fool.

I continue loving you,

Always and forever

May you find love, true,

Wherever you desire.

Happiness and peace.